


Long Live The King

by Llama1412



Series: Love Shack [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Father-Daughter Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loyalty, M/M, POV Alternating, Politics, Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: Vernon Roche has served King Foltest for most of his life. He would do anything for King and Country.Then he somehow ends up in a domestic relationship with an elf. Not just any elf, either, butIorveth, the leader of the Scoia'tael and Temeria's Most Wanted. As much as he tried to avoid thinking about it, it was only a matter of time until he would be forced to choose between the two most important things to him.
Relationships: Adda Biała | Adda the White & Vernon Roche, Foltest & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche, Triss Merigold & Vernon Roche
Series: Love Shack [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860328
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. Prologue: Two Can Keep A Secret If One Of Them Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title inspired by [Secret by The Pierces](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUWu744yhjA).

Vernon Roche had done many things on his King’s behalf since he’d been press ganged into service at 15. So when he was recalled to the capital just as the gossipmongers began to claim that a witcher had lifted the curse on a striga that had been killing people in Vizima, Roche wasn’t sure what to expect, but he was more than prepared to do whatever was needed.

He certainly never expected King Foltest to greet him with intentionally casual friendliness that Roche could see anxiety and stress underneath. 

“What’s happened?” he asked in an undertone as Foltest clasped his shoulder.

Foltest smiled tightly, guiding him slowly away from the observers of Court. “Find Merigold, should be in the Halls of Healing. She’ll explain. I need you to clean up the mess.”

Roche arched an eyebrow, but nodded seriously. “Of course, sire. I’m delighted to serve.”

Foltest’s smile turned more genuine and he squeezed Roche’s shoulder. “Good man, Vernon, good man. Now, I shall let you attend to your work.”

“Yes, sire,” Roche bowed his head. Then he turned away from his King and, ignoring the glares and whispers of the courtiers, left the throne room to search for the King’s Mage, Triss Merigold.

He didn’t know Triss Merigold very well – she’d only recently been assigned as King Foltest’s advisor by the Council of Mages, and while Foltest certainly didn’t trust her yet – or had that changed? – he didn’t distrust her enough to have Roche target her. Even so, researching her had been on his to-do list. Roche liked to know who was hanging around his King, liked to know anything and everything that could threaten Foltest. 

He hadn’t gotten around to researching Triss Merigold yet, though. His plan had been to prioritize it as soon as he returned to the capital, but before his urgent summons, Roche had been in Gors Velen, negotiating with the criminal underworld. Some of Foltest’s advisors had proposed the idea of pacifying nonhumans within Temeria by encouraging fisstech dealers to target them. After all, people were much easier to control when they were dependent on something.

Roche had gotten as far as meeting with the leader of the Gors Velen mafia, a terrifyingly petite little old lady who, as rumor had it, was the most ruthless crime lord in the north. Then, he’d received an emergency message written in Foltest’s own hand bidding him to return to Vizima immediately. He’d barely stopped to rest, entirely focused on getting to his King as soon as possible to take care of whatever had happened.

He was good at taking care of things. That was pretty much his entire job – to take care of whatever his King needed him to do, whether it was negotiating fisstech trade, exterminating opponents, or reminding people that if they didn’t support Foltest, Roche would come for them.

Approaching the Halls of Healing, Roche took a moment to wonder what exactly he’d be facing. Was the mage here because she’d been injured? Or was she healing someone else? The rumors of the striga had implied no one survived an encounter with one, but gossip was hardly infallible. 

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Halls of Healing, revealing the long stone chamber with beds spaced between pillars. Two beds were occupied – one by a small figure that had to be a child and the other by a white-haired man. The mage he was looking for stood with her back to him, preparing herbs with a mortar and pestle. Her attention was fully on her task and Roche frowned. Leaving her back open like that was a mistake and an opening – but no, Foltest had asked him to speak with Merigold, not kill her.

“Unwise to expose your back in a place like Court,” Roche said.

Triss Merigold did not startle. In fact, all she did was turn and raise her eyebrow at him. “I’m aware,” she said, flicking away a curl that had fallen over her face. The rest of her vivid red hair was tied back and Roche had the passing thought that it contrasted sharply against her dark skin, making both catch the eye. “I’m not the one who designed this room, and while I _could_ rearrange it, it would be rather rude to do so while there are patients resting.”

Indeed, the child appeared to be deeply asleep, but the white-haired man was very clearly awake and observing them. Roche grimaced. “If you have time,” he said, “the King said you would explain what needs cleaning up?”

Merigold looked at him assessingly, then glanced at the white-haired patient, apparently aware of the scrutiny. Interesting.

She nodded, “of course. Actually, you may want to talk to Geralt here,” she gestured at the white-haired man, just as Roche was going to suggest moving somewhere they couldn’t be overheard.

“Geralt?” he asked, the name unfamiliar.

“Of Rivia,” the man spoke up, even though they should’ve been out of earshot. Roche narrowed his eyes at the man suspiciously.

“A witcher,” Merigold said and Roche blinked. He’d never met a witcher before, but everyone had heard of the once-human mutants who had been enhanced for the sole purpose of fighting monsters.

“An injured witcher,” he responded. “Was the city threatened by a monster?” And if so, what the hell kind of clean up did Roche need to do?

“Technically, she’s a princess,” the witcher said, a sardonic lilt to his voice.

“Temeria has no princess,” he glared. Not for a long time now, not since Adders – or rather, the late Princess Adda – had died. Almost unconsciously, his hand moved to cover the memorial tattoo he’d gotten for her on his hip.

“Actually,” Merigold cleared her throat, “I believe that’s the issue the King needs cleaned up.”

“What?”

“It would be best if we started from the beginning. You know that I was sent to Temeria because of the miners that have been disappearing and the unrest its stirring, I assume?” At Roche’s nod, Merigold continued, “we discovered we were dealing with a creature, one that coming from the royal catacombs.”

Roche’s muscles went tense. “You investigated the late Princess?”

“We discovered she was cursed. And,” Merigold hesitated, “and that she was pregnant.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, shock suffusing his limbs. Adders. _Pregnant!?_ He’d had no idea. He was mostly sure _Foltest_ had had no idea either, and considering – well. There was a reason Roche was trusted with Foltest’s secrets, and it had everything to do with the relationship a teenaged Roche had realized existed between Foltest and Adda. A decidedly non-familial relationship.

He never spoke of it. Roche knew well when to keep his mouth shut. That was his biggest asset, what made him valuable. 

But if the witcher and the sorceress had dug into Adders’s past…

“The father?” he croaked.

“Foltest.” The disgust on Geralt’s face was clear and Roche knew immediately that this was the mess he needed to clean up, before that same disgust was writ large across the faces of the populace. 

“But even if she was pregnant, Adders died. How–?”

Merigold’s brow arched high and Roche realized his mistake. A muscle twitched in his jaw and he clenched it tight. 

But the sorceress didn’t say anything, instead just answering his question as if he hadn’t slipped up at all. “It was a striga. Or rather, Adda’s child became a striga.”

His breath rattled in his chest. “Explain,” he rasped, the reality of Adders having had a _child,_ a child that _survived_ beginning to hit him. 

"Lord Ostrit cursed Adda. He knew about – about the child and he was jealous of King Foltest and hated him.”

Roche blinked. He knew Ostrit, but mostly as the annoying noble who had followed Adders around like a puppy for years. And yes, Roche was aware that many described the way he followed Foltest in the same tone, but he had always hated Ostrit’s holier-than-thou attitude.

Adders had liked him, though. She’d thought he was sweet. 

And he had killed her? To get back at _Foltest!?_

“Where is the treacherous filth?” Roche growled. He vaguely noticed surprise pass across the witcher’s face, but most of his attention was focused on getting revenge for Adders, _justice_ for Adders. 

“Dead. The striga killed him.”

“Hmph,” a vicious smirk pulled at his lips. “Good.”

“Geralt lifted the curse,” Merigold continued. “Adda’s child survived.”

Roche froze. Turning his head seemed to take an eternity, but slowly, he was able to see the child sleeping silently in the bed on the far end again. _Adders’_ child.

She had Adders’ hair, white-blond and straight as straw. Foltest had the same hair.

Roche swallowed, wondering how much the child took after either of her parents.

Adda – for there was no doubt in his mind that Foltest would name this child Adda – slept unmoving, only the gentle rise and fall of her chest betraying that she lived. 

“She was a striga?” Roche heard his mouth ask, but he felt disconnected from it, entirely stuck on the fact that here in front of him was evidence of the secret that could destroy the throne. “What does that mean?”

“She lived as an animal,” the Witcher said, his voice gravely. “She was born as a striga – she’s never known anything else.”

“She’ll live,” Merigold added, “but she’ll need special care. I’ve reached out to the Temple of Melitele to see if they may be able to help her.”

“You _told_ them–”

“Nothing.” She cut him off. “I do know how to do my job, you know. I’ve been doing it for longer than you’ve been alive.”

Roche almost choked on his own spit at that. Logically, he knew that mages all had extended lifespans. Some even claimed to be immortal. But for this woman in front of him, who looked in the prime of her life, to casually imply that she was more than thirty years older than him…

Fucking weird. Why would anyone want to live so long? Why would anyone want to be involved in _court politics_ for so long?

Mentally slotting researching Triss Merigold into his schedule for right after, he began to think about what cleaning this up would mean. 

“Then you know,” he began slowly, “that neither of you can ever speak of what you learned. Any of it.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed at him and wow, how had he missed that they were yellow like a cat’s?

“On pain of death,” he added, in case the witcher needed it to be said aloud.

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “How do you fancy your chances against a witcher?” 

Admitting the truth chafed at him, but Roche grit out, “I don’t. But I’d prefer not to die by your sword and the alternative is to keep you locked away forever, and let’s be real, those chances aren’t great either. So let me be clear. You will forget what you learned.”

He began pacing, fiddling with a knife. First order of business, make sure Foltest’s secret was safe. Second, come up with a cover story for why there was now a princess. Third, deal with the fact that this princess – this _child_ – had lived her entire life as a monster.

Yeah, the Temple of Melitele was probably a good idea. The Priestesses were said to be wonderful healers, and they could teach her how to be a person.

That was one and three addressed. Two was going to be the difficult one. Princesses didn’t just pop up from nowhere and it was commonly known that Foltest was unmarried – and pointedly refused to marry, despite many, many advisors begging him to provide an heir.

Bet none of them saw this one coming.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Roche turned back to the witcher and the mage. “It would seem I need to figure out how to explain where a new heir to the throne came from.” He nodded briefly to each of them and strode out of the room, pausing only momentarily to look at Adda from up close.

Footsteps followed him in a rush, and suddenly Triss Merigold was walking beside him. “So…” she began, “is that what you do for the King? Clean up problems?”

“That’s not your concern,” he said stiffly, and then jumped wildly when what felt like two invisible fingers tickled down his spine. “What the fuck!?”

“Shouldn’t leave your back exposed,” Merigold quoted him and quite ridiculously, he found a smile pulling at his lips.

“All right, sorceress. Let’s say I assume you know how to do your job and I know how to do mine, hmm?” He raised his hands placatingly.

“Agreed,” she grinned. “I’ve noticed that everyone around here seems to hate you as much as they do me. Except for the King, of course.”

“Mm,” Roche shrugged, “no doubt they mentioned why as well.”

Specifically, that his mother was a whore and that _he_ was a nobody whoreson who had somehow won the King’s favor.

“They did.”

At least the mage had enough political acumen to not repeat it. He hated getting called that. Brought back too many memories.

Merigold was still keeping pace alongside him and he turned to frown at her. “What do you want?”

“To help,” she said. “Look, you don’t have to like me, but that little girl needs special care and I intend to make sure she gets it. I imagine that will be easier to do if I work with you, rather than around you.”

His eyebrows rose and he snorted lightly. “You would not be able to work around me.”

“Oh? You’re awfully confident,” Merigold winked, her voice teasing. “I am a sorceress, you know.”

“Hopefully a good one,” he responded, lips tugging upwards. “I’m sure I can think of ways magic could be useful.”

Triss Merigold laughed, her voice ringing through the corridor like bells, and he found himself strangely endeared to her. This was a woman that he wanted on his side.

“Shall we go see the King, then?” her smile shone and Roche grinned back.

“Let’s see how he wants us to handle this.”

* * *

There were two ideal ways to learn all the good gossip: ask an innkeeper or ask a whore. Or better yet, ask a madam.

But if you wanted to find out whether the secrets you’d let slip had made it into the local grapevine, there was no better strategy than to park yourself in a corner table near the bar at the busiest tavern and take your time nursing an ale. 

Thus, Vernon Roche leaned against the wall of The Hairy Bear Inn & Tavern and sipped a Temerian rye that was just on the right side of terrible. All around him, laughter and conversations vied for attention and he took his time working through each of them, listening for key words before moving onto the next one. The craftsmen in the middle of the tavern were complaining about taxes – which was actually good to know. Apparently there were too many additional tariffs to make a profit. Roche would keep an ear out to see if the complaint came up from other quarters as well.

The two families in the corner across from Roche was loudly arguing about who grew better tulips, and Roche quickly dismissed them. A huge group had taken over three separate tables, but they were busy rolling dice and playing gwent with serious faces and surprisingly little conversation. Preparing for a tournament, maybe? Certainly not gossiping, at any rate.

Finally, a handful of stonemasons entered the tavern and settled next to the bar. Their first few comments were casual – rough day, shit weather, etc – but before long, they began to discuss politics.

“Didja hear?” one of them elbowed the other. “That asshole noble, the one that ordered the 5 ft statue of himself?”

“Ugh, fuck that guy.”

“He’s dead now. Ran afoul of the king, apparently.”

“You’re kidding,” one of the masons perked up. “What happened?”

The first speaker wiggled around, getting comfortable and dragging out the tension until all of his companions stared at him.

“Well?” one of them nudged.

“All right, so Lord ‘I’m so special, I need a statue’ Brenden was close to the old princess, right? You know, before she died? Well _apparently,”_ the man drew the word out again and his friends looked annoyed at his need to dramatize. Roche himself was rather enjoying it, honestly. “He had a kid with the princess! And hid it from the king when the princess died!”

“No!” one of the masons groaned, “there’s no way that’s true.”

“I mean, everyone has said the princess had a lover in town before she died,” another one shrugged. “But why would he have hid the kid? I mean, that kid’s the heir now, right?”

“Wait, what? How’s that?”

“Well, Foltest ain’t getting married any time soon, let’s be real. So if the kid is, you know, the princess’ child, then… well, they’re next in line for the throne, then. No other royals around.”

“Hold on,” one of them said, signalling for a refill for all of them, “wasn’t Lord Whatsit like super anti-Foltest? He did something significant, I’m sure I remember it.”

“Oh, ‘something significant’, that’s helpful.”

“Wasn’t he the streaker?”

“The what?”

“You know, that guy that got naked and ran around the palace a couple of years ago? That was fucking hilarious.”

“Oh man, that’s _him!?_ Fuck, almost a shame he’s dead.”

The group burst into laughter, loud and boisterous, and Roche turned back to his ale with a satisfied smirk on his face. His cover story had worked _and_ he’d gotten rid of an annoyance along the way. Foltest would be pleased.

Now all they had to do was present Adda before the Court and hope that she could refrain from biting anyone for ten minutes. Then it would be off to the Temple of Melitele with her, where Merigold had already negotiated special care and visiting rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: that little old mafia lady is actually a certain someone's mother. Guess who?


	2. Part 1: Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iorveth wants to understand why Roche follows Foltest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this one for a while as I wrote the prologue and omg I'm very excited for y'all to read it now. I have big plans for this fic as a finale to the series (yes, even tho other fics are WiPs. Sorry)

“Why do you follow him?” Iorveth asked one evening in the aftermath when he and Roche were lying together. He didn’t truly expect Roche to answer him – they’d always shied away from discussing the elephant in the room: the king that Roche faithfully served, the king who wanted to eradicate Iorveth’s species.

“Him?”

“Your king. Foltest.”

“Oh.” Roche swallowed and looked away, and Iorveth figured that was all he’d be getting out of Roche for the night. He was just about to roll over and pull out his flute when Roche licked his lips and spoke. “He saved me.” His voice was gravely and Iorveth almost thought he detected the slightest tremor in Roche’s limbs.

“You’re a soldier. Lots of people have saved you. What makes him special?” Iorveth wanted to roll up onto his elbows so he could see Roche better, but if this was hard to talk about, he’d probably get a better response if they weren’t looking at each other. 

“He’s a King?” Roche offered, then cleared his throat. “It’s not – he didn’t save my life. Not exactly. He saved  _ me. _ When I had nothing, he helped me. I owe him everything.” Iorveth could hear Roche take a deep breath before continuing, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for King Foltest. That’s why I follow him.”

Iorveth frowned. That wasn’t exactly what he’d been searching for. “Even when he does something wrong?”

The bedsheets rustled when Roche shifted his shoulders. “It’s not – that’s not how relationships with a King work. You don’t,” out of the corner of his eye, Iorveth could see Roche bite his lip. “You don’t disagree with a King.”

“You’re scared of him?” That didn’t sound like much of a relationship to Iorveth.

“I respect him,” Roche corrected. Iorveth scoffed and Roche sighed. “It’s more complicated than that. He is – the fate of my country rests on his shoulders. He  _ is _ Temeria in many ways. And that means Temeria’s interests will always come first.” Roche swallowed audibly. “As it should.”

Iorveth frowned. “What does that mean?” He didn’t disagree, necessarily. He would always put the interests of the Scoia’tael first, and he knew Roche felt similarly about Temeria. But the way Roche spoke about Foltest…

There was something more there.

Roche cleared his throat. “I – have you ever been tortured?”

Iorveth jolted onto his elbows, “Foltest –”

“No,” Roche cut him off. “No, it wasn’t – it wasn’t like that.” He took a deep breath. “I failed. Several years ago now, but I failed. I was captured.”

Iorveth’s brow furrowed. “My intelligence on you had nothing like that.”

Roche barked a harsh laugh. “I wasn’t who I am now. I wasn’t  _ valuable. _ Not worth killing, but not expected to have any information. Not that that stopped them trying to extract it.” Iorveth could see his knuckles turning white as he gripped the blanket and hesitantly reached out to cover his hand. Roche swallowed.

“This was before the Blue Stripes?”

“Mm. Before I was anyone notable at all in the Temerian Army, though I had – well. Whoresons don’t become officers. Not unless the King decides otherwise.” 

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t.” Roche’s smile was twisted and bitter. “I was sold back to Temeria. Hostage exchange – they’re pretty common when mid-level spies and soldiers get captured. If someone the opposing King can't stand to lose is captured, then they offer a number of the prisoners of war they’ve taken from our side in exchange.”

“Who–?”

“Some secretary in the Redanian Secret Service. Apparently Dijkstra later had him executed for breaking under torture.”

“Oh.”

They sat there in silence for a long moment. Iorveth rubbed his thumb slowly across the back of Roche’s hand, hoping to offer some comfort in light of the memories. Especially because he still needed to know – 

“So why do you follow him? He clearly doesn’t care about you!”

Roche shook his head. “That’s not how it works. He’s my liege-lord and king. He  _ is  _ Temeria, and I will always serve Temeria.”

“Even when Temeria leaves you to rot?” Iorveth didn’t understand. If anything, Roche should be on his side, should  _ want _ Foltest dead. Instead he defended the king?

Roche shrugged. “Wouldn’t you die for the Scoia’tael?”

Iorveth frowned. “The Scoia’tael would come for me. They would at least try.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t you – you don’t think the Blue Stripes would come for you?”

“Depends on their orders.” Roche sighed at the look on his face. “Of course they’d want to. But we’re soldiers, Iorveth. We serve the King. Our job is to carry out his orders.”

“Don’t his orders say to kill me?” Iorveth tilted his head, leaving himself open for a blow. “Carry that out, then.”

“Don’t.” Roche looked pained. He pulled his hand away from Iorveth’s and scrubbed it over his face. Iorveth did not at all notice the way his palm felt cold without the dh’oine’s warmth against it. “I – you don’t understand.” Roche shook his head and let his hands fall into his lap. “You don’t answer to anyone. But you must have once, before you commanded the Scoia’tael. Did you agree with every decision your leaders made? Every decision Nilfgaard made when you worked for them?”

“Of course not. But when Nilfgaard turned their blades on us, we  _ left.  _ We didn’t go back and ask for our next mission!” Iorveth bit his lip, clenching his fist in hesitation. Then he reached forward and cupped Roche’s face. “I’m not – I want to understand. Why do you follow him?”

Roche looked into his eye, his face tired and wane. “I’m loyal to Temeria, Iorveth. I don’t know how to do anything else. And he’s – he’s not just my king, Iorveth. He’s my friend, my  _ family.  _ I’m not exaggerating when I say I know him better than anyone else.”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Does he know you as well?” Roche looked at him pointedly and Iorveth rolled his eye. “You know what I mean. Sounds like a pretty unequal relationship to me.”

Roche snorted. “He’s a king. I’m a peasant-born whoreson. Of course it’s unequal.”

Iorveth frowned and shook his head. “I can’t understand why you defend that. It hardly seems worth it.”

“To you. To me, it’s everything.” Roche dragged a hand over his closely-cropped hair. “He’s – I can hardly reveal my king’s secrets to the Scoia’tael. But fuck, Iorveth, I helped raise his d– his niece. I’ve been his agent for longer than anything else, and yes, I have the blood on my hands to show it, but it’s not all bloody. There are – I know you hate him, and I know why. But there are those he  _ is _ a good king to, and he trusts me enough to let me help build that. Can you understand?”

“No,” Iorveth said honestly, “but I suppose it was unlikely I would ever be able to.” He sighed, “I know he means a lot to you. But if he  _ is _ your friend – isn’t part of that holding him accountable? If you think he’s such a good king, why not try to make him a better one? Maybe one who doesn’t aspire to genocide.” 

“I–” Roche bit his lip and took time to think about it and Iorveth felt something almost like hope blooming inside him. Then Roche shook his head. “Foltest hates nonhumans. He doesn’t  _ want _ to be a king to you, and I don’t know how to change that.”

“Well we don’t want him to be our king either,” Iorveth snapped, but his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Foltest is a direct threat to my people, Vernon. I won’t stop wanting him dead.”

“I know.” Roche’s voice was tense and strained. “Just – please. If the Scoia’tael ever manage the means to go after him,” he met Iorveth’s eye solemnly, “please don’t be the one to do it.”

Iorveth swallowed, wondering if he could make such a promise. At the moment, the Scoia’tael had no hope of organizing such a thing, but if they ever did – if Iorveth hadn’t wanted Foltest’s blood before (and he had), hearing Roche speak casually of torture would have sinched it. 

He clenched his fists. “I’ll try.” It was the most he could promise Roche, and while he meant it, it was somehow still a lie. He didn’t  _ want _ to try, but how could he do anything else when Roche looked at him with such a wrecked look in his eyes?

He could see in Roche’s face that he wasn’t satisfied with the non-answer, but it was the best Iorveth could do. His mind kept running over Roche saying he wasn’t valuable, so of course he wouldn’t get rescued from torture. That of course his king couldn’t come for him, because Temeria had to come first.

Iorveth shaped his words carefully, wanting to be sure he could promise this, even if it wasn’t what Roche had asked for. “If,” he started, “if you are ever captured again,”  _ by someone other than me,  _ went unsaid. Iorveth cupped Roche’s face and forced their gazes to meet. “I will come for you,” he swore. Roche blinked at him, stunned, and Iorveth reiterated. “I will come for you. Maybe your people can’t and maybe you think that’s okay. But  _ I will,  _ do you understand?” 

With a dazed expression on his face, Roche nodded silently. Iorveth dipped his chin in a half-nod in response. And then, just to lighten the mood– 

“No one is allowed to torture you except me. And I have much better ways of doing that.”

Roche snorted and tilted his head to press a kiss to the heel of Iorveth’s palm. “For the record, I prefer your methods too.” 

  
“Good.” Iorveth had to pull him in for a proper kiss after that. They might never agree about Foltest, but  _ this,  _ this was something Iorveth could offer him. 


	3. Part 2: Choosing Iorveth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roche realizes that actually, chosing between his King and his lover isn't so hard after all.

It hit Roche suddenly one day. There was nothing remarkable about the day - he was procrastinating on his paperwork by recalling not just the last night spent with Iorveth, but the following morning when he woke to the soft sounds of a flute playing a happy tune. And out of nowhere, it hit him – if he were forced to choose between his oldest friend and king or his most cunning enemy and lover, he would choose Iorveth.

The realization stole his breath. Temeria had always come first for him, from the moment he was plucked out of poverty by his Prince. 

But Iorveth wasn’t against Temeria, not exactly. As Iorveth liked to say, “Temeria was my home long before it was named such”. He wanted a different Temeria, certainly, but he did not want to destroy Roche’s home. 

That difference wouldn’t matter to Foltest. But at this moment, thinking about the smile on Iorveth’s face as he’d lowered his flute to kiss Roche good morning, it was easier than breathing to choose Iorveth.

It scared him, how much he’d come to love the elf who was supposed to be his mortal enemy. Yet it also made something warm build in his chest. For so long, Temeria had been his priority via serving Prince-then-King Foltest, and he intended to continue serving for as long as he could. But to know that more than just his country, there was someone out there who knew _him,_ who would remember him long after he perished and he was no more than a footnote in Temeria’s history, if even that – Roche swallowed around the lump in his throat. It felt special, to know that his legacy was more than just dirtying his hands behind the scenes for Temeria, to know that someone would know the truth, good and bad, about the roles he had played in shaping his country. To know that that person would continue to fight for Temeria. Perhaps Iorveth’s idea of Temeria was different than his own, but he had the sneaking suspicion that it might actually be better. Not that he’d ever admit that. But he was too close to Temeria, hands too soaked in blood, to really see how to fix what he needed to without more bloodshed. Iorveth – yes, the elf would likely spill blood. But he would also _build_ and restore and remind Temeria that their kingdom was built on the ruins of elven cities.

Roche bit his lip and darted a look over his shoulder to where King Foltest was dedicatedly working on his own pile of paperwork. If Roche had ever wanted to be king – and he hadn’t – the sheer amount of paperwork would have deterred him. Not that he didn’t have his own fair share of paperwork. He looked down at his pile with a sigh and picked up his quill again. He’d much rather keep thinking about Iorveth, but with his King so close by it felt uncomfortably like treason.

Perhaps because it was. In Foltest’s eyes, it would be, anyway. Scribbling his signature, Roche idly wondered if all his years of service would save him if Foltest ever found out that he was in love with a nonhuman. He grimaced, his sense of guilt making itself known by twisting around in his stomach. It was bad enough that he loved Iorveth – thinking about him when he was supposed to be serving his King was not just ill-advised, but positively treacherous.

That didn’t stop him from shifting in his seat until his belt pressed into the bruises Iorveth had left on his hips, each ache bringing specific sense memories with it – Iorveth biting his neck, sucking marks on his shoulders, stroking a hand over his chest, twisting fingers through the hair on his belly. Elves were hairless and Iorveth had come to adore the things about him that were so very human, even if the elf wouldn’t admit it. Roche didn’t mind – Iorveth showed him in so many ways that it was _Roche_ that he wanted, Roche with all his human failings and strengths and looks. 

Besides, they had fun playing with the differences in their anatomies and what it meant they could do together. Which was something he _definitely_ shouldn’t think about in front of his king but _oh,_ his mouth watered at the thought of how sensitive Iorveth’s pointed ears were and how sweet he tasted and the way he somehow always smelled a little bit like cedarwood and juniper, as if the forest had imprinted itself on him. The scent always stuck in the back of his throat after getting his mouth on Iorveth, and at some point, it had become a favorite.

Lost in memory and fantasy, he didn’t hear the first time Foltest called his name, but he was jarred out of his thoughts quite suddenly when he heard Foltest’s rumbling purr next to his ear.

“Vernon,” Foltest called, his voice gentle and breathy in that way it always was when he called Roche Vernon in that way that invariably made Roche eager to do whatever it was his King needed.

He cleared his throat roughly, face flushing. “My apologies, got lost in thought.”

Foltest laughed, “clearly. Is this about that secret lover Merigold insists you have?”

His King’s face was jovial, inviting Roche to share with Foltest as he always had. Except now, Roche had a secret that he could never share and part of him resented Foltest for interrupting his thoughts about Iorveth. Roche had spent so much of his life with nothing so pleasing to distract his mind with and he didn’t want to give it up now that he had it. But more importantly, he didn’t _want_ to share it, even if he truly had the option. Iorveth was _his,_ their relationship was something that was only for them and there was so little in Roche’s life that was just _his._ He would always savour what he had.

Roche let a smile pull at his lips. “Triss is imagining things, unless she considers patronage at Miss Daffodil’s Bouquet to be true love.”

Foltest cocked an eyebrow. “Whore caught your fancy in Ellander’s brothel?”

Roche bit his lip against a grin. “Let’s just say, I’ve found a lot of reasons to appreciate Ellander since being assigned there.”

Foltest’s laugh was deep and booming. “Good on you, Vernon, good on you.”

Instead of the memory of cedarwood and juniper, all Roche could taste in the back of his throat now was bile. But it was necessary to lie to his King and, more than that, Roche _wanted_ to lie. In a contest between Foltest and Iorveth, it seemed Iorveth would always win. So Roche swallowed and shoved his guilt down, “you had a task for me, your majesty?”

“Yes,” his King nodded. “How do you feel about a trip into Kaedwen? Since Henselt chose Dethmold as his advisor, there have been some obvious divisions in his court. See what you can do to drive the wedge further.”

“I hear Kaedwen is lovely this time of year,” Roche grinned.

“Good man,” Foltest clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, and Vernon?”

“Yes, sire?”

“I imagine this may take a while. Feel free to stop in Ellander on the way there _and_ back,” Foltest winked. “Give your whore a good ploughing from me, eh?”

The mental image of his King and Iorveth in the same place shut something essential down in his brain, and not in a good way. But he pulled himself together enough to chuckle, “thank you, sire. I shall.”

  
Foltest turned away and the smile dropped from Roche’s lips, heart pounding in his chest. _Yes,_ he thought, _Iorveth will always win._ Because between the two of them, Iorveth would never force him to choose, even if the elf wished that he would. And because, when Iorveth made his heart race, it was never in fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the last of this fic I already had written. But I hope you enjoy it!


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